


Familial Resemblance

by ameloren



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25186255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameloren/pseuds/ameloren
Summary: After the events of Radiant Dawn, Goldoa offers to host peace talks, in an effort to open its borders to the world.Soren has an interesting conversation with Dheginsea.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Senerio | Soren & Dheginhansea | Dheginsea
Kudos: 41





	Familial Resemblance

**Author's Note:**

> Found this in my notes from two years ago. Not sure if I like it, but I'll put it here anyway because why not?

Goldoa offers to host the peace talks, in an effort to open its borders to the world. King Kurthnaga smiles, and recieves all his guests with the same fey-like grace, regardless of royal titles, or lack thereof.

Dheginsea watches with narrowed eyes in his chair. Weakened and sorely defeated, he chose to abdicate in the aftermath of the Tower, welcoming home his daughter Almedha. The injuries he sustained in the fateful battle are not yet fully healed, will never fully heal.

Ike attends, because he is asked to.

Soren follows. Wherever Ike goes, Soren is never far behind. He has no intention of letting him slip through his fingers again.

The talks go surprisingly well. He wonders, briefly, whether they are looking at a new era of change and peace, the cusp of a golden age that will be recorded in the history books for years to come.

It is the last day when disaster strikes. 

The party is loud, sweaty, and obnoxious. Low levelled courtiers attempting to smooze into the upper echelons of society, booze everywhere, loud chattering, obscene dancing - he's surprised Kurth was the one to organize most of this. 

"I'm going for some fresh air," he mutters to Ike, who's currently ensnared in Ranulf's stories about Skrimir, and Ike gives him a nod and a thumbs up.

Out on the balcony, he closes the door behind him and breathes. Goldoa extends below him, lands of rich forests and settlements of dragons. There's something about the sight that is unfamiliar and yet familiar, but he supposes he's seen many forests travelling the continent these past years.

"So." A voice interrupts his thoughts, and he pivots neatly to meet the steady gaze of former King Dheginsea. "You are the tactician Soren?" Something about his gaze unsettles him, the intent focus of an ancient being.

"Yes," he says, curt. Dheginsea joins him out on the balcony, hands folded neatly on the rails. 

"You have a gift for tactics," he says.

Soren restrains a snort. An understatement, considering that he had somehow managed to get the Greil Mercenaries and various friends and allies mostly intact through several wars and battles with tempermental goddesses. 

"Can I help you?" Soren cuts neatly to the point, the words crisp in his mouth. He has no need for company. He came out here for quiet, not to listen to a doddering fool tell him things he already knew.

"You look like him, from the back." It's a quiet admission, soft. Soren narrows his eyes, and shoots him a glance. Dheginsea is staring straight ahead, looking out at the horizon. "You look like her too. My children," he clarifies.

"My apologies?" He's not sure what he's supposed to say to sentimental old men who suddenly compare him to his children.

"No, you don't need to apologize," Dheginsea says. He turns, and looks him in the eyes, and Soren is struck by the ages they seem to hold. "If anything, boy, I ought to be apologizing to you."

"What for?" His mouth has gone dry. "The shunning of the Branded? That's not something you can apologize for and sweep under the rug, old man." He's pushing it, maybe, but he has tomes of lightning by his side and the old dragon king is a fraction, a shadow of his former self.

"Ah, no. That is something else I will be working on for quite some time, I believe," he says. "No, I was referring to abandoning you in Daein."

A chill runs down Soren's back. He turns away, looking out over the balcony. Suddenly, the landscape of Goldoa seems more foreign, unwelcoming. He grips the railing tightly. "I beg your pardon?"

"Rajaion chose to come after you and your mother. When he failed, I did not try again. And so, you slipped through the cracks, a hatchling lost to the wayside. Goldoa is not so careless with its children. Should Rajaion have been successful, I would have allowed you to stay."  
  


"But he was not," Soren says, mind spinning. 

"But he was not," Dheginsea agrees, a tilt of the head in acknowledgement. 

"You believe I am part dragon. You believe I am Lady Almedha's lost child? Pelleas was claimed as her son," he says.

"Pelleas was claimed as her son. Now, there's an odd one," Dheginsea muses. "That boy has no laguz blood, and yet is other. No, I'm certain you are my grandson. I see my own gift for ruthless tactics and bluntness in you. You could attribute them to your father's side of the family as well, if you wish. I'm not surprised Almedha found her match in him. From the sounds of it, he had the cruelty, to match."

"I - " King Ashnard had been his father. Lady Almedha was his _mother._ Now, that was news. He hunches over the railing, staring down at the trees. "Does she know?"

"Hmph. Not yet. She will if she gets close enough, likely."

"Kurthnaga?"

"My youngest can be oblivious to things that are staring him in the face. Luckily, he also has the tact not to mention delicate matters, especially if they are as tangled as family affairs."

"So, yes." 

"Naturally. He wishes to extend an unconditional invitation to Goldoa whenever you wish. There is always a room for you in this castle, should you have need of it."

"Hm. I'll graciously accept, I suppose," One does not turn down shelter, freely given. Soren had spent too many nights out in the open, hungry, for that. 

"There is also the matter of your lifespan."

"I'm sorry?"

"Dragons live the longest out of all laguz. I have eyes, grandson. I see the way you look at your general. You will outlive him many, many years."

"I won't leave him."

"I know."

"How many years? How much longer?"

"You are the first of your kind. I would guess several beorc lifetimes. Maybe more, maybe less, but it is all the reason to hold him tighter. Cherish the years you have with him. I do wish you happiness. Perhaps, when he passes, come back to us. Come back to Goldoa. I would like a game of chess, one day, and have the pleasure of saying I was beat by my own grandson."

"I'll consider it," Soren says. If he gets his way, it will be many, many years before he needs to consider that option.

"Please do," Dheginsea says.

The noise of the party behind them continues. Soren has no desire to go back into the throng of sweaty people, but he's not sure he would like to stay out here talking, either. He hesitates, and then pulls a small, portable chess set out of his sleeve. Dheginsea raises his eyebrows. "You'd better not go easy on me, old man," he says, as he settles down on the floor.

"I would not dare," Dheginsea says, and settles down across from him, watching as he sets up the miniscule board. 

The small set and its pieces reflect their years of wear and tear, wood pockmarked with years of war and exposure to the elements. But it has sentimental value, and if the old man would like a game of chess, who is he to deny him?

He nudges a pawn forward, and turns to look out at the landscape as the breeze ruffles his hair. It's neither familiar nor foreign, but perhaps instead something worth exploring.


End file.
